


I'm Free (and Freedom Tastes of Reality)

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Series: It’s No Big Surprise (You Turned Out This Way) [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Character Death, Character Study, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Prison, Questioning, Transphobia, thats enough tags i think lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: Elliot wakes up thinking of an old friend. It leads him down a road he's been terrified, but desperate, to take.
Relationships: Darlene Alderson/Dominique DiPierro, Dominique DiPierro & Elliot Alderson, Elliot Alderson/Shayla Nico, Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick
Series: It’s No Big Surprise (You Turned Out This Way) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788682
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	I'm Free (and Freedom Tastes of Reality)

**Author's Note:**

> um i was. not going to publish this because its very personal, practically a vent of my own experiences, and elliot is a character i hold very near and dear to my heart. but a friend convinced me to, and also im vain so. 
> 
> please enjoy
> 
> title: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGa70tVYVKo
> 
> ps i don't think ive ever seen dom&elli tagged for friendship. wild haha

Elliot wakes up with Hot Carla on his mind.

It’s early still; pale light just barely filtering through the windows, and it casts his memories in a soft, dreamy aura. He’s on his back, hands folded over his stomach – peaceful, like the dead. But his mind is very much alive, and actively giving him grief, because that’s what it did best.

Carla was beautiful. Maybe not in the socially acceptable, Photoshopped-faked, Covergirl-gorgeous sense, but by that logic? Elliot himself was no prize, either.

To him at least, Carla was radiant. She had these dark, piercing eyes set above her sharp cheeks, eyes that reminded him of Joanna Wellick. Eagle eyes. Eyes that saw right through you, easily picked out your damage and held it up for inspection.

Unlike the late Mrs. Wellick, though, Carla had no intentions of using her powers for evil. She was one of the truly good, even trapped behind bars. And she always managed to smell good in prison, which had to have been some kind of witchcraft. Not flowery, either – Elliot hated flowery, it reminded him of his mother. Carla smelled herbal, and sometimes smoky from her recreational activities. It was nice.

His first instinct had been to save her. Save her from what, exactly, (the prison industrial complex? the socioeconomic repercussions of being transgender?) he didn’t know. It was clear she could handle herself, what with their first meeting being over her bashing another inmate’s face in with a metal eating tray. But Elliot still wanted to reach out and grab her, tuck her in his pocket for safekeeping. It was what he did – tried to do – with all the women in his life.

Then again, many of them were dead, and Carla was still alive, even if her chapter in Elliot’s life was over. So, what did that say about his knight-in-shining armor abilities?

She lives in his head, now, laughing over their tasteless prison breakfast, piling oily pancakes onto his plate to keep a little color in his cheeks. She had taken care of _him_ – and wasn’t that an interesting change of pace?

He sees her lips colored with contraband, her messily styled hair, her rosy cheeks she worked so hard to keep smooth. Elliot wants to reach out and touch her, hold her for a while, bury his face in her neck and breathe her in – but it’s only a memory. His just tend to be more vivid than most.

He loves her, that’s a given. Not romantically, but the way you love a fleeting experience you know may never happen again. He loves the thought of her, of letting her into the fragile little world he created to keep the reality of prison off his mind. The local park pyro.

He can still see her face, bent over her red wagon, burning up her latest read. The flames dance in her eyes, and she’s transfixed – much in the way Elliot found himself transfixed by the glow of code against a dark computer screen.

And then there had been – does he even want to think about it? – that snap of jealousy he got whenever Carla came around. The feeling of his belly turning to ice as he, stupid and slowly, realized what that jealousy meant.

Carla was free. Not in the literal sense, obviously, but she was free to paint her lips and her nails and show the world her true self. Elliot was not. Elliot was held captive by his dark hoodie and stiff, masculine jeans.

Attention came with the territory. Even in prison, where everyone was ostracized, Carla got looks. She got harassed. She got felt up and leered at, and she only had so many hands to punch with. Elliot despised attention, preferring to go unnoticed, live life on the fringe.

But he wanted – wants –

A piece of that. A piece of freedom.

Was he gay? He didn’t know, exactly. He sucked his fair share of dicks in high school, mostly chasing shitty free weed or a party invite that would make Angela happy. And then there had been that thing with Tyrell, the strange energies that buzzed over them when they would stare at each other for a little too long – but it never went anywhere solid.

Tyrell had kissed him only once, one time before he died. Bathed in arcade light, with Mr. Robot hovering somewhere near, the Dark Army had found them with their foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other’s hot breath. He had tasted like Chapstick.

And he had loved Shayla, loved her a lot, but she was the only woman he’d ever felt that way for. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Elliot sits up in bed. He sleeps naked these days, somewhat more comfortable now that fsociety, Evil Corp, the Deus Group, and whiterose herself are no longer breathing down his neck.

He saved the fucking world. If he wants to sleep in the nude, he’s earned it.

He scrubs the sleep from his eyes and tries to shake himself awake. He keeps away from most addictive substances now, except for nicotine – so the apartment is void of any caffeinated beverages to get him going.

He stumbles into the bathroom, blindly fumbles with the toilet seat and holds his dick to piss. He stares at it. It stares at him.

Like many people, Elliot had thought your parts made you what you were. He thought this for a very long time, deep into his twenties – as a child of the Eighties, they had scared him straight with AIDs propaganda long before he even knew the definition of ‘propaganda’ .

But this was the twenty-first century, and Elliot was no longer a child. He knew better – he knew that your soul was the only compass to who and what you were. Progress was being made every day, and he was lucky enough to live in New York City, where the only time you really got glared at was if you were an egomaniac, or a bootlicker.

Still, he was afraid. He felt his fear situated between his ribs, sitting on his lungs, shaking with tremors of terror. Afraid of rejection, repulsion, brutality, humiliation. The same things he’s always been afraid of, only dialed up to eleven.

No one was disgusted with an anonymous man in a hoodie. An anonymous woman – or even an anonymous person with traits of the two – was a different story. Elliot had seen the women in his life deal with enough unfair bullshit to know.

He washes his hands and brushes his teeth, watching his reflection go through the motions. He thinks he looks like a man, mostly. Sharp jawline, prominent Adam’s apple. He’s not tall, though, and has been told in more than one hookup that he has beautiful eyelashes that frame his bugged-out eyes.

But that was just what he had been told a man looks like, right? What is a man outside of society says he should be?

Elliot dresses slowly. Underwear. Jeans. Shirt. Another shirt, long-sleeved, because it’s cold. Hoodie. Socks. Shoes. He doesn’t have much other clothing besides the essentials – he doesn’t even own a true winter coat anymore. He can’t play dress-up here, and maybe that was by an unconscious design. Self-sustainability meant sacrifice.

Elliot was sick to death of _sacrifice._

He stuffs something edible in his mouth – a muffin? – and leaves his apartment, jiggling the handle to make sure it locked. He doesn’t let himself look at the adjacent door – the door to Shayla’s apartment – but that’s routine. He hasn’t let himself look since he opened Vera’s trunk and found her inside.

He aches with how much he misses Shayla. Shayla would have understood. She chased freedom in her own way, chased the next high, hoping to find the one that finally let her touch the stars.

It’s dim outside, overcast. Typical New York winter, but it doesn’t help Elliot climb out of his own head any. He hustles down into the subway, seeking the warmth of the underground. He lights a cigarette even though you’re not supposed to, because, even after everything, crowds still make him nervous.

Cig dangling from his lips and frigid fingers stuffed in his pockets, he watches the people. He’s sure to stand back, not just for his anxiety, but because he’s not a dipshit who doesn’t care about his second-hand smoke.

New York City is the people watching capital of the world. Just from his vantage point, he can see a gaggle of Orthodox Jews, all neatly trimmed beards and black hats, conversing among themselves in Hebrew. He can see a tall Native woman dressed like she’s about to go on a fashion runway, in a sweeping violet gown and a full set of pearls. She’s reading _People_ magazine on the bench. He can see a squat old man leaning heavily on his cane, a grocery bag full of red roses clutched in his other hand.

He’s reminded of why he wanted to save the world in the first place. People deserved to live a life without the chains wrought by corporations like Evil Corp.

His train squeaks into the station, and he drops his cigarette, extinguishes it with his heel. He files in between a heavily pregnant woman and a man he swears looks just like Shaquille O’Neal.

Mr. Robot is waiting for him, perched forward on the cup-like, plastic subway bench. Somehow, Elliot isn’t surprised. The train had always been a bit of a meeting point for them.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Robot says. His scarves swish as the train pulls forward.

Elliot sits next to him, letting Robot pull him into a bit of a side-hug. They were on good terms and had been for some time. It felt good not to fight the affection.

“Hi,” Elliot says. “Been a while.”

“Time is relative,” Mr. Robot says, and then he grins, the smartass. “You’ve been well.”

“Guess so,” Elliot says, and Mr. Robot tuts at him.

“Give yourself some fucking credit, kid,” he says. “You’re sober, you’re getting out. That’s not nothing.”

Elliot hums. It wasn’t _nothing,_ but he wasn’t employed; he lived off the money he had squirreled away from AllSafe and E Corp. He doesn’t even really hack anymore, just fucks around with Capture the Flag or other coding puzzles. He divides his days between his apartment, the park, McDonald’s and Darlene’s place. Not nothing, but nowhere close to the kind of work fsociety did.

“Don’t hold yourself to the standards of late capitalism,” Robot says, sounding every bit of the Marxist he is. Elliot tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “We got rid of that shit for a reason. Existence has purpose whether you’re working or not, you know that.”

_Easier said than believed,_ Elliot thinks.

“What are you doing here?” Elliot asks bluntly. They both knew Mr. Robot was his protector, and he mostly came around when Elliot was feeling vulnerable.

“Ain’t you happy to see dear old dad?” Robot jokes, nudging Elliot with his elbow. “Huh?”

“I am,” Elliot says, and he was. Despite all their previous bullshit, he loved Mr. Robot. It was always good to see him, to know he was still around. “But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” Robot says. He sighs. “You’ve been having some heavy thoughts.”

Elliot stiffens. Yes, he was Mr. Robot, and Mr. Robot was him, but they felt like entirely different entities. He didn’t like the fact that those thoughts were open, exposed like a book for Mr. Robot to rifle through.

Mr. Robot scratches thoughtfully at his stubble. “It’s not a bad thing, kid.”

Elliot frowns. “What’s not?”

“Being different,” Mr. Robot says. “Falling between the gender lines. Being gay, or queer, or whatever they’re calling it these days. Scary as hell, but so is everything worth doing.”

“Think about it, Elliot,” he goes on. “Think about all the terrifying things we’ve already done. Think about all the beatings we’ve taken. If you’re still standing after all of that, surely you can do this.”

Elliot turns over Robot’s words in his head. Yes, he had taken down one of the most insidious corporations in the world. Yes, he had pulled off creating the vigilante hacker group whose iconography still, so many months after 5/9, filled people with the spirit of revolution.

But those were outside things, things he could manipulate and control. This was internal. This was different, and new; uncharted territory. But also, not, because it had always been there, waiting to pop up like a flower in the spring. He wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“Just be gentle with yourself, Elliot,” Mr. Robot says. “Be okay with who you are, whoever that ends up being. You take enough shit from the outside world without doing it to yourself.”

The train pulls into his stop then, and when Elliot turns, Mr. Robot is gone. He ducks out of the subway and pulls his hood around his ears. A little girl snuggled in her mommy’s arms smiles at him on his way up the stairs, and, despite himself, he smiles back.

Darlene’s place isn’t far. It’s nice, nicer than his own apartment, and surely nicer than the nights she had spent sleeping in the arcade or as a drifter. She works in cybersecurity herself now, some hoity-toity job Dom had snagged for her. Elliot would probably poke fun if it wasn’t obvious how much she enjoyed it.

Elliot buzzes himself in, nodding at the doorman. He has his own key. He crashes here sometimes, when home seems too far, or too dark, or too lonely.

“Babe?” Dom’s voice carries over from the other end of the apartment. Elliot blinks. He hadn’t expected to find her here, but then again, why shouldn’t he have? She and Darlene were practically married at this point.

She comes out in house clothes – a Metallica t-shirt he recognizes as Darlene’s, and sweatpants. She’s toweling off her hair from a shower, and Elliot almost regrets his trip over. This is too domestic for him to be witnessing.

“Oh,” Dom says. She doesn’t sound angry, or even surprised to find him standing in the still-open doorway. “Hey, Elliot.”

“Hi,” he says lamely. He fidgets with the lighter he has stashed in his pocket. “Darlene home?”

“You just missed her,” Dom says, throwing her towel into Darlene’s laundry bin. “She took a cab to the good grocery store – you know the one. Jesus H., it was about time. There’s like two pieces of bread and a sip of milk in the kitchen.”

 _Like brother like sister_ , Elliot notes with amusement.

A skinny black cat slinks out from under the sofa, drawn to Dom’s voice. It winds itself around Dom’s legs, purring. She scoops up the cat like a baby, supporting its head with the crook of her elbow. It bats its paws at her, still purring.

“When’d she get a cat?” Elliot wonders aloud. He watches Dom rock the cat in her arms. It makes him miss Flipper, and Qwerty, too. Maybe he should get a pet again.

“What, Miss Thing here?” Dom says, more to the animal than to Elliot. “She’s been a stray in the neighborhood for a while, and Darlene just got tired of going outside to feed her. You’ve probably been here with her – it took some time for her to get used to me, even.”

The cat looks more than charmed with her now, though.

“I should go,” Elliot says abruptly, and he really should. He was already feeling mixed up, and while he didn’t mind dumping that on his sister, Dom didn’t deserve more Alderson-brand bullshit. Surely, she got enough of it from Darlene.

“What? No!” Dom exclaims. The cat shimmies out of her hold and drops itself unceremoniously on the floor. It sniffs at Elliot before skittering away. “You just got here. Stick around until Darlene gets back, at least. I feel like I never see you anymore.”

She liked to see him? That was… interesting. Dom was good to Darlene, and he appreciated her for that, but he had never thought of them as anything other than acquaintances.

“Sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat,” Dom says, looking fond and slightly annoyed. Her mother had just about beaten the hospitality into her, that you always offered guests something to munch on, and she didn’t like ignoring that instinct.

“That’s okay,” Elliot says. His palms are sweating, and he wipes them on the seat of his jeans.

Dom finally shuts the door – he’d been standing with the hallway open behind him. Open. Vulnerable. A chink in the chain-link.

“So,” Dom says. She settles herself on Darlene’s thrifted couch. Everything in Darlene’s apartment is thrifted, a charming hodgepodge of clashing colors and different eras. Hesitantly, Elliot does the same. “What’s up?”

“Um,” Elliot says eloquently.

There’s a long beat of silence, and Elliot wants to light up another cigarette, if only to have something to do. But he knows Dom doesn’t smoke, from all the times Darlene had called him to complain about her girlfriend trying to get her to quit. He picks at a thread on his hoodie instead.

“So, like, what have you been –“

“How did you know you were gay?” Elliot blurts, the words coming out in one big, mushy exhale.

Oh God. Oh shit. Oh, Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

“I mean – I didn’t – “ Elliot tries to backpedal, desperate to go back to a few moments ago, before Dom was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Um,” he says. “Um.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dom says cautiously. Something about the look of wild panic in Elliot’s deep, large eyes is setting off maternal instincts Dom had thought long buried. She wants to give his hand a little squeeze, but refrains, having been taught by Darlene how her brother felt about unannounced physical contact.

“I don’t know, really,” Dom says. “I always liked girls. Tried to be with guys once or twice, because I knew my ma wanted grandkids. She’s got them from my brothers now, though, so…”

Dom trails off, momentarily lost in her memories of Christmas, of her little nieces and nephews running around, high as kites off of sugar cookie icing. She’s so goddamn glad they’re safe again.

“Sorry,” Dom says, clearing her throat. Elliot flexes and unflexes his hands, waiting for her to continue.

“It’s not like that for everyone, though,” she goes on. “I’ve never been too involved in community stuff – not my scene – but I know from friends that it can take years, even their whole lives, to come to terms with their identity.”

“Are you…?” Dom asks, knowing she’s not making this any less awkward, but not being able to help herself.

“I don’t know,” Elliot says truthfully. He stares at Darlene’s shag carpet like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “But I think so. And I’m –“

“Scared,” Dom finishes. She smiles, but it’s sad – doesn’t reach her eyes. “I was, too. Sometimes I think I still am.”

“I had a friend,” Elliot says. “A really good friend. She – she was transgender.”

The word feels odd and large and foreign in his mouth. He swallows deeply, like something is stuck in the back of his throat.

“I think,” Elliot drawls. “I think maybe I am, too.”

“Can I ask why?” Dom says softly.

“I don’t – don’t feel like a man,” Elliot says, voice hushed. His tone makes Dom feel like this is a sacred, sacred thing. “Whatever that’s supposed to feel like. I feel… confined, the way I am. And I’m tired of living in any way where I don’t feel free.”

“Would you like to be called a woman?” Dom wants to know. “Or both? Or neither?”

Elliot rolls his head from side to side, not quite shaking it, but an obviously negative gesture. “Dunno yet. Don’t know if I’ll ever know.”

“That’s okay, I think,” Dom reflects. “Boxes aren’t for everyone.”

Elliot hums agreeably. He’s feeling considerably better after asking, like the confession had given him a heady hit of dopamine.

“Hey, uh,” Dom says after a long moment. “Come here for a second.”

She’s off the couch and disappeared into the bedroom before Elliot can even turn his head. He pulls himself off the couch, and nearly trips over the cat – what had Dom called her? Miss Thing?

He peers into the room, the childhood reminders of _DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF, ELLIOT!_ almost keeping him from entering. But Dom’s not reemerging, and he feels dumb just standing there, so he crosses the threshold into Darlene’s master bedroom.

It’s a mess, clothes and food containers and electrical odds and ends scattered everywhere, but Elliot had expected nothing less. He was the neat one between them, and he still couldn’t find his shit half the time. The closet door is open, and its light is on, and Elliot maneuvers landmines of clothing trying to get over there.

Dom’s holding a navy-blue blouse by the hanger, trying to smooth out its few wrinkles with her open palm.

“Did you know whiterose showed me her dresses?” Dom asks, turning to him.

“What the fuck?” Elliot asks. He didn’t even know Dom knew whiterose’s true identity before the news cycle got ahold of it.

“Yeah,” Dom laughs. “As Minister Zhang. She was telling me who she was. I think it was because she knew I was closeted within the FBI, the way she was closeted to most of the world. She was a terrorist, but Jesus, I still feel sorry for her.”

“Anyway,” Dom says. “Barring the terrorist shit, it meant a lot to me. I figured I’d pay it forward.”

She holds out the blouse to Elliot. It’s new, with the tag still on, and is obviously somewhat high-end. It’s v-shaped collar is ruffled, and it ends in delicate folds down the shoulder. It’s very pretty, like something you would wear to a cocktail hour.

“Christmas present from my ma,” Dom explains. “I’ve told her a million times I don’t wear stuff like this, but you know how moms are. I thought Darlene might like it, but…”

She steps in closer. In the back of his mind, Elliot realizes he should be freaking out at the proximity, but he’s calm. Dom’s proven she’s not going to hurt him.

“Wanna.. wanna try?”

Dom’s not exactly sure what it is about Elliot that makes her do what she does next. Elliot isn’t sure what is about Dom that makes him let her.

Holding the blouse between her knees, Dom gently unzips Elliot’s hoodie and helps him shimmy out of it. It drops haphazardly to the floor, but neither of them are paying much attention. Elliot feels like he’s in a daze, and it reminds him of the early days of morphine, before he had developed tolerance. Dom slides her fingers under his layered shirts and pulls them off, too.

It’s one of the most intimate things Elliot’s ever experienced. And its with his sister’s girlfriend, of all people.

“Here,” Dom murmurs. Elliot allows his head to be guided through its hole and pushes his arms through the sleeves. It’s not as tight as he expected, but it’s obviously made for someone with softer shoulders and a more padded chest.

“Oh,” Dom says softly. “You look beautiful.”

No one has ever, in his whole life, called Elliot beautiful. Handsome, once or twice, maybe. Ugly and plain-looking, many times. But never, ever beautiful. His eyes are hot and stinging, and he scrubs at them. This is supposed to be happy, right? So why does he feel like falling apart?

“Go look,” Dom prompts, and Elliot again tries not to trip through the wreckage of Hurricane Darlene.

In the light of his sister’s bathroom, he sees himself in the mirror. Same bug eyes, same sharp jaw, same skinny frame no matter how much he ate. But the blouse catches the light, turning the navy-blue some softer color, and Elliot makes a choked little sound in the back of his throat.

He looks beautiful.


End file.
